


Takes a Dip in my Daydreams

by nightshiftblues



Series: People Jerking Off to Thoughts of Alexander Hamilton [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Power Imbalance, Unrequited Lust, ambiguously so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15358209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshiftblues/pseuds/nightshiftblues
Summary: The jury's still out on whether Hamilton is deliberately provocative, or just too pretty for his own good.





	Takes a Dip in my Daydreams

The worst part is that General Washington genuinely cannot tell whether Hamilton knows exactly what he’s doing or not.

He stares at the inventory report on his desk, his brows knitted in furious concentration, but the words and figures simply refuse to register into his consciousness. All aides have been dismissed for the night, so Washington allows himself a deep, frustrated sigh in the silence of the cleared-out farmhouse converted into a headquarters for the purposes of the stalemate.

Washington may be a stubborn man, but he is not self-deceptive. He can admit to himself that it is Alexander Hamilton that vexes him.

More specifically, the image of Alexander Hamilton’s nimble fingers digging into a peach.

Nearly two hours have passed since this unfortunate incident, yet Washington is nearly certain he can still smell a hint of that sweet, thick fragrance lingering in the air.

Hamilton had been draped over the chair on the opposite side of Washington’s desk, his waistcoat unbuttoned and one of his legs carelessly thrown over one of the hand rests. All too casual in the company of his chief commander regardless of the late hour, but that is hardly unusual. Hamilton has always suffered from a certain disregard for his rank, mouthing off to his superiors and taking on duties not assigned to him. He had picked up the peach from a bowl on Washington’s desk while he’d been reviewing some letter or another.

_‘Someone really ought to eat these before they rot.’_

Another heavy sigh escapes Washington’s chest, a shakier one this time. He tosses his long since dried out quill onto the table with a clatter. Useless. He won’t be able to finish this task until he does something about the tension coiling around the base of his spine. He needs to deal with this distraction to regain any hope of achieving something tonight.

He reclines in his chair and undoes the buttons of his uniform breeches, beating down the rush of shame that emerges. There will be time to lay in his bed and list all the reasons he should know better,  _be_  better. All the ways it is wrong to think of a statusless, landless, lower-rank officer less than half his age in the manner he is about to, nevertheless act upon it. Later.

As of now, Washington summons up the image of Hamilton’s fingers again. Perpetually ink-stained and slightly calloused, but delicate and clever as ever, digging into the soft, sweet flesh of the peach. Handling it with that same singular focus that Hamilton does everything else, a slight crease forming between his brows and those dark, alert eyes completely transfixed with the fruit as it he can figure it out and make it even sweeter somehow.

A quiet, low groan stirs up in Washington’s chest as he pulls his cock out. It swells in his grip immediately, as if it has been impatiently waiting this whole time for Washington’s resolve to crack.

Hamilton started out by digging out the stone in the centre of the peach (a method Washington has never seen anyone else utilize). He’d pulled it out with a moist squelch and tossed it casually over his shoulder - it had clattered against the wall and then hit the floor. If Washington didn’t know better, he would have though the gesture was deliberate in its careless insolence. Something an unruly teen might do to try and provoke his father’s ire. As if Hamilton was testing to see if Washington would take him over his knee for it.

Washington hadn’t, if only because he knows he wouldn’t be strong enough not to enjoy it.

But that’s a fantasy for a different time. Washington tightens his grip and casts his mind a few hours back again.

At this point, Hamilton’s fingers were covered in thick juice. It was running down his wrists, turning his shirt sleeves sticky with it. The wet, squelching noises the peach had made as it was being pulled apart had sounded ridiculously obscene to Washington’s ears. His breathing quickens, and his thumb rubs over the slit of his cock, already leaking copiously. It had been like falling under a hypnosis, or some kind of a curse perhaps; he simply couldn’t tear his eyes away as Hamilton had proceeded to lick a trickle of juice up his lithe wrist, then ran the flat of his tongue over his palm like a cat.

It is both a blessing and a curse that this won’t take much longer. Washington moves his hand faster up and down his shaft and his eyes fall shut. The look on Hamilton’s face as he finally bit into the damned peach, that had been the thing that made Washington suspect it was deliberate. His eyes fluttering shut, thick eyelashes brushing against lovely cheekbones. And that  _noise_  he made. Washington’s grip tightens and his hips nudge upwards into his grip on their own accord. That quiet, pleased moan emerging from his boy’s chest,  _good God,_  it just wasn’t fair.

Or course some rational part still tucked into the depths of Washington’s brain knows that it couldn’t have been deliberate. Fruit is not easy to come by, they are fighting a war after all and food is rationed down to the bare essentials. Hamilton had been simply overcome with pleasure at this rare indulgence. The peaches had been optimally ripe in that moment after all, just at that perfect stage of sweetness that comes right before corruption.

Washington has kissed his principles goodbye the moment he unfastened his breeches. He is already a doomed man. Surely there is no further shame in imagining that it  _was_ deliberate. That his boy covets his commander the same way Washington covets him. That all these casual displays of insolence are invitations for Washington to put him on his knees where he belongs.

Washington’s cock twitches in his grip as he gives in to his guiltier fantasies. Hamilton between his legs, all dark eyes gazing up between his thick lashes and nimble pale fingers working to serve his general with that furious focus that Hamilton pens essays and eats peaches with. Hamilton’s lips stretching around his girth, the warm heat of his mouth sealing his cock as his throat struggles to swallow around the intrusion. A small trickle of juice had escaped the corner of Hamilton’s mouth and Washington is now cursed with the knowledge of what it would look like if he came down Alexander’s throat and he couldn’t swallow it all.

It’s getting difficult to hold his moans in; he may be alone in the house, but the walls are thin and there is an entire army sleeping outside of his door. Washington bites down on his lower lip as the different images keep flashing before his hungry eyes. Hamilton squirming, laid across his lap. Hamilton wrecked, on his back in his bunk. Hamilton yielding under Washington’s hands like the soft flesh of the peach had yielded under his fingers. Sweet and pliable and all his to feast upon, to sink his teeth into and claim as his own.

“Alexander…”

Washington’s hips jerk and he barely manages to snatch the handkerchief from his breast pocket before he comes undone. He ejaculates into it with a muffled, deep groan, nearly doubling over in his chair.

Naturally, the shame comes rushing in as soon as his cock softens in his hand. Washington does not deserve to be in command over someone he thinks of in such a manner.  _Craves_  in such a manner. He would arrange a transfer for Hamilton to a different regiment if he didn’t undeniably need his right-hand man to win the war. And if there was even the slightest possibility that the boy would actually comply.

Washington sits still until his breathing evens out again, wipes away the sweat on his brow and tucks his softened member back into his breeches. The handkerchief he tucks back into his pocket with a mind sense of dismay; he’ll have to see to washing it himself at some point.

There are still a few peaches left sitting in the bowl on his desk. Washington picks it up and, in a moment of impulsive rush, crosses the room in a few long strides, yanks his window open and tosses them out.

If Hamilton has the guts to inquire after them the next day, Washington will say they were rotten.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't even seen Call Me by Your Name lol


End file.
